Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Friday, January 25, 2019

What Some Forgotten Greek Philosopher Could Teach Us About Modern Day Rape Culture Was Not Worth Writing Down

When I was even a few years ago, it never would have occurred to me that not some but ALL MEN object so strenuously to being generalized as a bunch of potentially false rapists. Seriously guys? Is that a thing you really think needs to be said out loud? Come on. If you really think it's such a huge threat, maybe you should. The way to avoid a false rape accusation is just tell the girl it’s a concern of yours. Right up front.

Guys, I swear. I have seriously underestimated the degree to which men resent having to put up with women who don't put out. I always thought it was supposed to be about love - and making it, for that cause alone. It gets pretty lonely there, thinking maybe you're the only one who still thinks that way - which is nice.

But the truth is, that's not what gets into must guy's minds - at least, not to hear them explain it to you, condescendingly eager to put you on the right track and with no whistle stops for edgewise words, contrariwise or otherwise. No, some dudes' amusement is tickled by a scenario quite similar to this one: "put out, bitch!" Which is why so many women are so put out, to the point of not evening putting it out there anymore. Now who these dudes are I don't know, but I conceive their ideal of chivalry to be: keeping an eye out for the one too good to ever let go, pushed to weigh everything: the good and bad benefit, against the often devastating potential for growth. Weighty measures don't even come into it any further than the moment dictates - and it's a real dictator if you get it used to so much as an inch's worth - but again, pushed to it, our starry-eyed chivalrous dude scoffs "Of course! I'm looking out for the one. I just don't know which yet! So I'm looking out for number one in the meantime."

Sure. You want the one too good not to get off the stall your tall horse has been huffing and puffing in and capitulate, throw the whole race! Why wouldn't you? Forced to it brutally with no choice (all marriage is rape) when she gave you the ol' tomato, as The Ultimatum is called in Jersey, famous for its ripe tomatoes, fresh corn and big-haired broads with a pretty serious idea in mind, despite their raucous, keening laugh, their heart-rending vulnerability (we're all vulnerable to that sometimes, especially under the right or wrong operating conditions, doc) and their overall easy-tier sensibility, a good-timer approach that values you but shut up.

This is the idea I get. A very different one from what I grew up, all woke from an everfresh feverish dream, chasing after it like a moron who got knocked off the carousel and ran away crying, still clutching and clutching at the stupid ring that was supposed to be a prize, good for a lifetime of free rides per customer. That was all I ever wanted! None of this, oh, I plan to eventually be forced into it. Meantime let's fool around playing pokey-holey with as many limber and willing contest runners-up we can get to throw their hopes in! You have NO IDEA how fun the last ten seconds of sex are, right before you lose interest and roll over on the bitch for a big snore.

I mean. Am I wrong? It sounds horrible, but I think they mean it!

It took me long enough to catch on they weren't joking. I think this really is the dream girl-goal held out for as long as possible and by most guys, those in tune with the norms prized and lifted into position for another rude and jubilant post celebratory comedown and up and down, it's the only thing worth doing. You can just imagine.

How disappointing a view, from where I sit!

Man, it's love I want, not some fucking fun all my life, finally break down and ok go for love, the love that was right there waiting, in a move timed just before I freak out about my failing looks, and how hard it's going to make it to get any good side tail. Shit.

I hate to sound like a cynic, but you've got to admit, haven't you? In times like these, we need people like me who can fake it till it STINKS, and it does stink. Cynicism. Whoever came up with that died of it. I am approximately as cynical as Diogenes himself, who founded the whole school! But he (like me) got out before it went bad and turned into a depressing and insincere melee of accusation, everybody in it for their own self and, quite naturally, secretly lying about it to create the impression they care.

If I was that kind of cynic, I would back it all the way to the beginning, sit still rather squat to the side of the road and shit its shoulder, on the principle that I don't even care who's sick enough to peek when there's business to do. Settle down! It would be Diogenes himself squatting right next to me! Not waiting his turn at all. No stall could hold that guy.

That was the whole point of his school. "Nothing natural is shameful." Don't wait by the side of the road forever, doing a little dance holding up your lantern in broad daylight and when somebody stops to ask, reply "I'm waiting for a good man to come by." Then, as if to add insult to your sincerely real and urgent need to see such a thing, tell them keep on going!

This is exactly what Diogenes did. All day, roaming the streets of Athens or some damn place, strong and rude and naked beneath a completely inadequate and gamey Toga it looks like he tricked up from a stolen bedsheet, punking Greeks in the unawares, their eyes narrowed by a glance at the unnecessary lantern (a real conversation piece!), in between sleeping off a meal of onions and cheese (his exclusive diet) in a tipped over huge round baked clay vase - a container originally used to ship oil. His was the life! "You should write that shit down," people kept telling him. Diogenes was like, no. You think people in the future'll put it to better use? If say I'm not in their face with my breath while they ponderously sip at the words? You think it'll have a more improving effect then? Waste of time. People are in all times, worth it in person but if you want to write a fucking self help book fuck, help yourself. I don't.

This was how Diogenes rolled. It was how he got his nickname: "The Dog," with his roadside open-tent facetious peepshow move. In Greek it was Kynos. Cynos. Hard to tell, how all the letters have changed since then, but it ended as so many things do, in cynicism. Part of the confusion is, Greek writers got off on the wrong alphabet, but spell it anyway you like. The Cynic.

Diogenes the Cynic. Nothing remotely like today's ill-bred mangy descendants who claim the lineage, but haven't a drop of real blood in their veins. I'd refer you back to the original writings, but (see above) there aren't any. All we have left is the stories. One time, Diogenes straight-up told Alexander the Great (that Alexander the Great, from Wikipedia) to fuck off.

And he did. These two men sized each other up so instantly in agreement: this prick's not worth the breath it takes to talk sense into him (Diogenes) and/or have him flogged and executed (Alex). The crowd at that performance would have been enormous, but little Alex didn't have the stones, or maybe he was tired after building an empire on top of his pop's conveniently early grave, running off with his Daddy's money and plans, vandalizing famous exhibits of exquisite geometry in the involved art of tying ropes into knots and fucking Cleopatra (didn't happen. Look it up). That mother-loving big ol' boy was no nice man, but next to Diogenes he was a pipsqueak. Anybody worshipping Alexander the Great at this late date in the dying light of Western Civilization deserves to end up as the smartest man in the world in a comic book, whose bright idea was to kill half New York City and frame a giant octopus for it that he cooked up himself on the beach just to scare people! And then of course, get away with it.

Fanboys. Sheesh. Did I digress?

Give us a real man, like Diogenes. I promise you, he had no problem with irritating women. Irritating as he was, so were they. It was a self, or rather reciprocally fulfilling arrangement of considerable verve, committed to get on one's famous last nerve. What's natural is not shameful. Why am I always lionizing Diogenes, they ask me? That cat was a dog! Yeah, but these days, not all men aren't. Maybe you see it otherwise.

All I ask is a little serious consideration of the man's message.

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